A woman who wanted to work in a scriptorium led the pilgrim band. They were on a long journey to Canterbury. The journey was to reach the cathedral and all publish an account – maybe a small short account of something deeply felt. It was a pilgrim band of brothers and sisters and every one had a tale to tell. Some had very good skills with words, they could turn a phrase or an image into shattering stories; they tossed words with no care of saving them for a rainy tomorrow. Others were less skilled; they struggled over the form and structure of correct visions and tales. And still others preferred pictures and images harking back to more primitive times but quite effective. And there were a few docents on the journey too and they would drop in from time to time.
One day the leader needed to take a break. The conversation died, the walk became laborious. Sure the leader mailed in a few messages, but the group lost contact. The dry quiet times grew. The cobblers, knights, poets, monks, druids, and painters all stirred with a restlessness they remembered from long ago. They felt high and dry and maybe jinxed. Would they reach Canterbury?
Eventually the disparate band realized (each in his own way) that journeys take different directions. They start and stop. They can lose focus and missing pilgrims show up later and resume the conversation. And by the way, no one ever reaches Canterbury; but everyone grows in silence.
a busy den mother
with a howling pack
the equinox tale
Red Dragonfly 
Absolutely excellent haiku! No stopping you now, Melissa! So deliriously happy for you, dearest friend.
Thanks, Alegria!
A woman who wanted to work in a scriptorium led the pilgrim band. They were on a long journey to Canterbury. The journey was to reach the cathedral and all publish an account – maybe a small short account of something deeply felt. It was a pilgrim band of brothers and sisters and every one had a tale to tell. Some had very good skills with words, they could turn a phrase or an image into shattering stories; they tossed words with no care of saving them for a rainy tomorrow. Others were less skilled; they struggled over the form and structure of correct visions and tales. And still others preferred pictures and images harking back to more primitive times but quite effective. And there were a few docents on the journey too and they would drop in from time to time.
One day the leader needed to take a break. The conversation died, the walk became laborious. Sure the leader mailed in a few messages, but the group lost contact. The dry quiet times grew. The cobblers, knights, poets, monks, druids, and painters all stirred with a restlessness they remembered from long ago. They felt high and dry and maybe jinxed. Would they reach Canterbury?
Eventually the disparate band realized (each in his own way) that journeys take different directions. They start and stop. They can lose focus and missing pilgrims show up later and resume the conversation. And by the way, no one ever reaches Canterbury; but everyone grows in silence.
a busy den mother
with a howling pack
the equinox tale
I liked the haiku a lot.
Sully
Wow. Wow.
That is amazing writing, Sully.
I’d love to see more haibun from you…
Thanks so much for the compliment, and for sharing…
You are on a roll Melissa!! All of these haikus are wonderful.
Thanks, Aditya!